


The Silence Carnival

by FrostedFox



Category: Penny Dreadful (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Carnival AU, Drug Use, F/M, M/M, More relationships to come, Multi, WIP, Warnings May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-11
Updated: 2014-09-02
Packaged: 2018-02-12 15:58:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2115942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrostedFox/pseuds/FrostedFox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Victor Frankenstein is a new employee at a travelling carnival where his coworker, Vanessa Ives, develops a curiosity with his mind, and drags him into the dark underground world along with the new carnival sharpshooter and a mysterious patron known as Mr. Gray. (Modern AU) [Tags automatically go alphabetically/not in order of relevance or importance.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Precision

**Author's Note:**

> I swore not to write another WIP but here we are. I do have a few chapters already written. As such, the pairings and tags should expand as the story progresses. All comments have the power to change the future, especially those which are constructive!

First, the smell. Popcorn and cotton candy on the surface, but beneath it the rank odour of various meats fast-fried in oil. Melting plastic on hot plates from vendor’s forgotten utensils and rubber gloves. _Rancid._ Corn syrup, corn oils, corn batter. When Victor focused on the scent it made his stomach roil and clench, but the sound of the midway abused his senses with equal fervour. _Clatter_. For tonight he worked a game that required those who tried their luck to knock all four blocks from a pillar. The game wasn't rigged, that would be illegal, but the blocks were, of course, weighted to fall home unless hit at an exact point and with the perfect velocity. _Precision_. Tomorrow a rotation took him to another of the low maintenance games. Ring toss, darts, cup and ball. Two weeks now, Victor had worked for the carnival. He travelled with the crew once, and only from his hometown of Exeter to London. _Escape_.

The tat-tat-tat of fingernails on painted wood spun Victor around. A girl in a FunTimes Fairway T-shirt tucked into a high waisted black skirt. She had long ebony hair pulled into a pony tail and dark eyes — as dark as Victor's but coated in a glittery black powder. 

"How're you holding up, new guy?"

"Fine," said Victor. He knew the practice of hazing. The nickname registered as insultingly lazy. He glanced away, pulled at his spider fingers.

“Alright.” Indignant girl. “I just wanted to meet you. I’m on games, too.”

Victor looked up. The games positions seemed reserved for those new to the carnival. This girl hadn’t come in from Exeter. Plus, she seemed a couple of years older than him. Old enough to have finished a degree and then some. _Curious_. A social defect then, if not entirely rejected. 

“Hey, you don’t happen to know the new guy, do you? Sharpshooter, I mean. He came in with your lot.” Her gaze shifted from his clueless face to the blocks behind him. “American,” she added with enough carbon monoxide to indicate she expected no answer. Victor inhaled without thinking. “Didn’t think so,” she said. “Well, I gotta go. Those prizes won’t scam children out of themselves.” Out of the corner of his eye, Victor thought he saw the blocks wobble with her words. Hit at the exact point and with the perfect velocity. A sharpshooter, herself.

 

-

 

An off-kilter fifth wheel trailer resembling a Volkswagen Microbus existed as Victor’s home for the time being. There were six mini trailers in total — all for the new recruits. Those who lasted were promised the real microbuses, campers, trailers, in lieu of pay raises. _Cuts._ The job payed for living with a few extra bucks a day — more if you bought your meals off-ground. 

The girl from earlier, Victor noticed, lived with an older man in one of the three pop-up houses that settled families. Perhaps her father, though the thought felt wrong, as though her dependance on family tainted her aura. The two resided in the smallest of the cabins, but any house remained one of the most prestigious arrangements one could find — provided one felt comfortable sharing a space with another. Victor’s ambitions remained at the height of a Volkswagen bus. He wanted mobility but the freedom to be alone. _Independent_.

The performers were situated in entirely different quarters. Most were given money for motels, some chose to camp on the grounds and pocket the cash. The fair travelled for two seasons and in the other half of the year, most employees had homes and families to return to. For those in lower level positions, jobs outside the carnival were hard to come by. Seasonal winter work only offered so much. Victor thought of the American that the girl seemed to interested in. Could she be fooled by a fake accent, or had the man really come from so far to travel in a sub-par fair? Every performer Victor met thus far treated him like trash, and indeed, his position held no more respect than a teenager with a summer job. The only reason a troubled youth didn’t have this job was due to the travelling. FunTimes Fairway cut the corners of movers and doubled their employees as mechanics. Not many of them had any training. 

Victor avoided seeing the acts, he preferred to wait and savour. _Relish_. Two weeks and most of the job felt old — he needed the surprises he could get. But if the sharpshooter was new, then perhaps the routine would go through changes in the next few months, changes that return performers had long since ironed out until they spewed only a stream of monotony. 

 

-

 

The sharpshooter's performance space sat between the midway and Food Alley. A free show, not the kind that people lined up for, or that merchants called tickets for at each corner. This one rotated through six acts, each forty minutes long with twenty minutes between. _Constant_. Because the lack of advertising, Victor's early arrival guaranteed a spot in the first row. Music blared as the stagehands set up the next show and cleaned up the last one. Victor leaned forward and clasped his hands over the rail. _Anticipation_.

Three shots inducted the man to the stage. He was older that Victor. Older than the girl from yesterday, too, but Victor could see the appeal. Tall, built, and dressed in tailored clothes that followed an Old West theme, but could still be fashionable in that new, hipster way that the youth donned. Under a cowboy hat, Victor spotted lighter hair that hung nearly to his chin. 

A target flipped from the stage and the man spun and hit the circle dead in the centre. _Precision_. The noise was half silenced, but a small group of children in the corner shrieked and giggled. Victor saw the man's lip twitch. Again and again he hit the target. Victor wondered how he would be at the blocks booth. Or balloon darts, where he would work today. To invite him would be an insult. Victor lost track of time watching the show, and by the time it ended his attention was so focused on the red and black targets that he didn't see the shooter's attention on him.

He stood, brushed the seat of his pants and turned. Soon he would be needed at his stand.

 

- 

 

Victor needed somewhere dark and quiet for his off hours. His experience of the city remained limited enough to instil in him a fear of leaving the grounds, but his camper provided too small a space to do much besides sleep. _Tight_. He found a tunnel, at first, which lead to a concrete pave-way under the park that hosted the fair. There were barred, rusty lamps screwed to the walls and the whole place smelled dank. Small doors appeared every few meters and Victor assumed they were electrical rooms, park maintenance closets, or more tunnels. He leaned against the mildew-coated wall and whistled one high note. The sound reverberated back to him. 

When he came here, he liked to close his eyes, listen to the distant sounds of the fair, and sometimes — only occasionally — he would tie his arm tight with a shoelace and push heroin into his bloodstream. A horrific practice, he knew from two and a half years of medical school, but at least he could find a vein faster than most. Today Victor  deserved the rush. _Release_. Balloon darts turned out to require more effort than expected; he spent the afternoon dodging needle-sharp bullets and the exercise left him exhausted and bored to his bones. 

An echo of footsteps in the damp jolted Victor and he capped and pocketed the needle. The girl, the odd one, clicked closer in heels and a dark red skirt. Her high-necked lace turtle-neck made her up do look even more severe. _Gothic._ No FunTimes Fairway T-shirt tonight.

"Hey, you."

"Hi."

"You busy tonight?"

The hum of heroin warmed his blood. "Guess not. Why?"

“I spoke with Ethan. Finally, right? He and I were going to hunt down a bar. He expressed interest in your presence.” She scanned his figure. He read her assessment. Scrawny. Young, but not too young. A world of experience unknown to her. 

"Ethan?" Was that a name he knew? The drugs clouded his thoughts.

"Sharpshooter. Oh, I'm Vanessa, by the way." She held out a hand. 

Victor took it, steadied himself. "Victor."

"We're meeting by the Big Drop at eight. You should probably change out of your carney clothes." 

He nodded. She turned on her heel and clipped away. _Precision_.

 


	2. An Act

Dorian Gray attended carnivals at night, or as late as he could before they closed. He preferred the performances that parents did not bring their children to, the special night shows by the dancers and contortionists. (On the edge of his mind, the darkness tugged.) Tonight he attended one such show for the second time. A young dancer caught his eye last time, and tonight he hoped to meet her. She caught his intense gaze near the end of her show, and before she sauntered behind the curtain she winked without a smile, but in his direction. (An act, or did she know?)

He waited. She emerged in leggings and a large navy sweater. The night personified but for the red glean to her tangled hair.

"Saw you here last week, too. You don't get tired of the fair?"

"Only come at night."

She eyed him. He wore his hair longer, parted in the middle in a way that would look pathetic — or pretentious — on anyone else, but the rings on his fingers and the golden knot pendant gave a sense of dangerous togetherness. He made sure of that. When he smiled, he showed all his teeth.

“You were watching me,” she said, unafraid that he would deny it. “Did you wait for me?”

“I did.”

“Do you want to go for a drink?”

He flashed the smile, predatory without trying. (Or perhaps trying was instinct by now.) “I would.”

“Alright, follow me, then.” 

-

Inside the bar were other patrons from the carnival. Most wavered with intoxication, inside for some time already. The dancer watched Dorian as he sipped his pint. She ordered a martini and he payed. She made no signal of discomfort at this generosity. (But people in her position rarely acted modest.) Dorian knew what he wanted, and he knew how to go about satiating his desires.

After two drinks, he raised his dark eyebrows and she mirrored him. An agreement. He followed her out and across the street to the entrance of a motel, but he shook his head.

“Don’t you have a dressing room, somewhere with less witnesses?”

“Ah, so you really do like the carnival.”

“What can I say,” he teased. “I’m a sucker for the smell of day-old vomit.”

She laughed with him then tugged his sleeve, forced him to follow in the direction they originally came from.

-

She shared a dressing room with the rest of the dancers. Chairs lined the mirrors which — to Dorian’s gleeful surprise — truly were lined with lights. (Sweltering when illuminated.) Unfortunately, the counter space overflowed with perfumes, makeup, and cans of hairspray. His dancer didn't care. She spun him around and pressed him against one so she could life herself up to kiss him. Dorian would have none of that. He turned them, lifted her onto the counter, and pressed himself between her thighs. She squealed in surprise. He gave up gentleness in small pieces. (Resist the urge to inflict pain.) Soon, he had her leggings around her ankles. Then the black lace undergarments. He tugged his own pants down and she laughed and squeaked in her delight. So much joy. (Resist the urge to take it away.)

When they were done — and she finished first, but neither of them minded — he pushed the hair from her face and stepped away. The dancer grinned, the gap in her teeth adorably imperfect, and held out her hand.

“Brona,” she offered.

He took her hand, lifted it to his lips. “Lovely to meet you, Brona. I’m Dorian Gray.”

“A pleasure, Mr. Gray. Now would you do me the kindness of passing my panties?”

- 

He brought a camera, the second time they met. This time he came early, just after lunch, when she didn’t have to dance. He took pictures of her when she wasn’t looking, and some when she was. (Those who look at cameras wear masks they are unaware of.) He documented the afternoon.

“Do you ever think of growing old?” He asked. “As a dancer. Don’t you think about the oncoming demise of your dreams?”

“I try not to. But we all think about ageing. That’s the — what’s it called — the human condition.”

“I suppose,” he said, then, “Do you sleep with many men while you travel?”

She coughed, and at first he thought his question had knocked the wind from her, but she brought a pack of kleenex from her purse and tore it, held the wad to her lips. When she pulled it away, there was red. (He wanted to taste it.)

She turned her head towards him and smiled, meek. “I’m sorry. The answer to your question — only the ones who pay for my martinis.”

“In that case, perhaps I owe you another martini.” He chose to not acknowledge the attack, the clear wreckage that existed within her lungs.

- 

She coughed on him as he thrust into her. This time against the wall in the dressing room. He made sure she could see herself in the mirrors over his shoulder. He did not stop when it happened, savoured the chill of air-on-liquid-on-skin. Apart from that, the sex proceeded without surprise. At least physically. Dorian enjoyed the newness of her situation immensely, but reigned those thoughts in, saved for later. (The act existed as one of the few things he did not tire of. Not during.)

He did not go to her again after that night. He avoided her entirely, in fact, and chose to upload the photos to his computer, print them, and paste them on his bedroom walls. Another experience. Her timeline — that thread the norns care for so delicately — existed only for a limited time longer. He wanted someone who feared for her livelihood with the process of ageing, what he got was so much better. (Sickness lingered in his mind, he pushed it away.) She would be gone soon, and he had owned her thoughts. Perhaps not for long, but not long was what she had.

Despite the finality of the experience, something about the carnival continued to pull at him. He fought it for a day before giving in. Dorian Gray had never been one to ignore the sensation of a draw.


	3. Conspiracy

Victor could not help the nausea that settled into his gut as he approached the Big Drop. Despite the wrap of his jacket, the familiar rub of the high collar against his chin, he felt a chill, and hoped for one of the warm pubs with a fire and orangish lighting. He glimpsed the two figures at the bottom of the ride. _Irregular._ Vanessa shifted her weight from foot-to-foot, Ethan — even in his mind the name didn’t sit right yet — watched her, amused.

“There you are,” Vanessa huffed. “I know you’re not late, but we were early. Let’s go.”

Ethan raised his eyebrows at Victor, expecting automatic camaraderie over Vanessa’s oddness. He did not find it. They headed out in silence. Even Vanessa focused more on her delicate steps than on the two men. _Graceful._ She had to avoid the puddles that London rain had left along the uneven pathways.

The pub was small, but when they settled into a booth — Vanessa and Ethan on one side, Victor on the other — they had no choice but to speak.

“So, how old are you then, Victor?”

“26,” he answered.

“And you?” She asked Ethan.

“31. Yourself?”

“Oh, a lady never tells. Let’s say somewhere in between.”

Ethan chuckled. “What do you do in your spare time?”

“We’re going to do the get-to-know-you routine, are we? I suppose I read. I look for mysteries. I hang about like a drug addled teenager and creep people out.” She paused. “I’m older than I look, you see. I still occasionally get ID’d going out. What do you do, other than shoot?”

“Drink,” Ethan admitted. “Don’t read much. Suppose I’m partial to hanging about as well.”

“Something in common then,” Vanessa said. “I found Victor alone in a tunnel when I invited him.”

“Yeah, speaking of that,” Victor interjected, the half a pint soaking into his confidence centre, “How did you know I’d be there?”

“Followed you.” She raised her eyebrows. She must have seen. She must know.

He took a sip of his drink, moved on. The sound of cutlery on plates, the chatter of those not-quite-intoxicated, and rock music playing over the speakers just loud enough to be a distraction filled the silence aptly. _Familiar._

 

 -

 

Four drinks in and Vanessa had a tight grip on Victor’s hands. Ethan had excused himself to the men’s room and Vanessa immediately leaned in with the obvious weight of a secret and stroked her thumb against his palm.

“People run away from the carnival all the time,” she whispered. Conspiracy. “I knew a girl who did it. She used to hang out in the tunnels under the midway. Took me there, once. She had a stash.”

“Stash?”

“Pot. Sometimes E. You wanna try and find it with me?”

“What about Ethan?”

“He can come. You think he’s cool?”

“I thought you liked him.”

“Do you?”

“I don’t like anyone.”

She stared at him like a yellow-eyed cat until Ethan interrupted. “So whaddya say? Another round?”

 

-

 

Victor curled in on himself when he slept. Something he picked up years ago, after the death of his mother. _Repress._ Fetal position, he saw it called, but he didn’t like the comparison. The temperature drop in his trailer served as enough of an excuse.

He thought over Vanessa’s offer. The drugs, however free they might be, were not something he needed help acquiring, but the offer to be a part of something struck a chord. Humanity plagued him and he craved the comfort of another. _Conformity._ Perhaps that unpleasant truth was what led him to the experiments in University, the ones that got him expelled for immoral behaviour. If he hadn’t lied about his final plan with the cadaver he would be in an institution right now, but he had, and he wasn’t. He lay alone in a cold bed in a trailer on the outskirts of a travelling fair instead.

He shivered. Victor didn’t consider himself a loner in any true sense. Much of the time he preferred to be untethered by plans or social normalities, but to have others in his life might provide the spark of energy that could fuel him towards his next big plan. Perhaps if he avoided variety in his materials he could achieve something closer to perfection. _Human._ Not like the last time. But no, he refused to allow those images into his mind. Instead, he internally recited the poems of Shelley, the sonnets of Shakespeare, and even some Plath. He lulled himself peacefully into the night time the same way his mother had before she had been pulled into luscious oblivion.

 

-

 

“So,” said Vanessa, elbows leaning against the wooden shelf separating Victor from the customers. “I found a journal. Mina’s. My friend with the,” she glanced to the right, “the goods.” Glance to the left. “I think there are clues. Wanna come by my place tonight and check it out?”

“I can’t tonight,” Victor automated. “Plans.”

“With who?”

“I’m just busy.”

“Fine.” She swivelled and left. Three kids shuffled away from his booth in her wake.

Victor heaved with relief. He had one thought that allowed him to survive his first Saturday morning in London, and that was the thrill of shooting up underground in the blissful dark. The one date he would not bail on.

The rest of the afternoon slid by no more or less ordinary than an average day, but with larger crowds pooling around his booth. Ring toss qualified as one of his top jobs, the lack of danger, the lack of deceit on his part — the rings were possible to hit, but the difficulty factor wasn’t to be trifled with. When his shift ended, Victor went first to his trailer in hopes of finding sleep until the sun set. He wanted to be rested tonight, not to fall asleep at the peak of the high. _Savour._ He had blown his new friend off for this, after all.

A dreamless nap, a collection of materials in a shoulder bag, and a walk bathed in orange-red light. Victor found his solace in the tunnel, the smell of mildew and wet pavement familiar now. He leaned against the wall, slowly pulled a shoelace around his arm, and readied the syringe. A cough jolted him, too near to be following him. The source much have been here first. He spun. Thirty feet down the tube sat another man. In his hand Victor could make out a pipe. Glass, it seemed to be. Most likely weed. He approached, fuelled by the courage of curiosity.

“Hello,” he offered.

“Hi,” said the man. Victor took in his jewellery, the fedora, and the suspenders. Somehow, the man managed to rock the look. “You want some?” He offered the pipe.

“Nah,” said Victor. “Not my drug.”

“S’everyone’s drug,” the man said. “You mean not your drug tonight.”

“I suppose I do. Mind if I share the tunnel?”

“Go ahead.”

Victor crossed to the other side, where he could watch the man without being intrusive. _Conspiracy._ He resumed the ritual and when the high hit his blood, his eyes shut of their own accord. When he opened them again — which seemed to be only a few minutes later — the other man was gone.


End file.
